One Deadly Cocktail
by BugzAroc
Summary: "I asked you to 'play nice' and you go and traumatize the resident ghost."...Slash


**Title:** One Deadly Cocktail

**Rating: **T for language

**Summary: **"I asked you to 'play nice' and you go and traumatize the resident ghost."

**Warnings: **none**  
**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and no harm is meant.

**Beta: **None, all mistakes are mine.

**A/N: This one incorporates Over the Limit and Monday night RAW**. **I've fibbed a bit more than usual as in, Sheamus looks a little different come Monday night than he did on your pretty little box****.**

***I'd like to thank everyone who takes the time to read my stories. Trust me, I wouldn't have had the guts to even start writing let alone continue without everyone's encouragement. Thank you guys so much!*  
**

* * *

John knew it, he knew it, he just fucking knew it.

The moment he turned into the corridor, the champ could tell that all hell had broken loose. Could see the destruction of something or better yet someone had come to pass The smears and drops of blood one part of the damage. Tables turned over or broken along with some of the sound equipment the other.

He figured he couldn't have been laid out for more than five, ten minutes at the most from Sheamus' kick, the sweet throbbing in his head being dialed up past the legal limit even for him. But after his head had stopped spinning and he caught his breath, he'd allowed the trainer and ref to help him up, colors exploding behind his closed lids when the crowd started cheering. He had to grit his teeth against the pain, wishing his nerves would quit sending damn signals. He knew his body was fucked up, thank you very much. The last thing he need were constant lovely reminders.

Once out of sight of the screaming fans, John broke away from the two men, thanking them for their help. He reasoned he wasn't too bad off and could make it to his locker room on his own. Massive lie by the way.

He made it to the first corridor before he felt something was wrong. Since his head was bowed away from the harsh light, he didn't see the mess at first. The tension was unmistakable though. Even for a paper view, John couldn't remember tension this suffocating since Randy decided to play soccer with the McMahon family's heads.

Slowly raising his head, John grimaced at the sight before him. Tornado was the closest word his could think of to describe the area, but he doubted the actual culprit was that forgiving.

There were several stage hands around attempting to clean up the chaos. In the mix of them he recognized one he'd had a few conversations with and started making his way over to the blond.

"Hey Clive" He called holding onto his side, limping. "What the hell happened here exactly?"

His suspicions were confirmed when the guys surrounding Clive all deliberately backed away, cautious though as if they didn't want to wake the sleeping enemy.

One cold blooded viper. Venomous fangs and all, John guessed, judging by the frightened looks cast his way.

"Hey Cena," Clive greeted once John stood in front of him. Reaching out, he steadied the swaying younger man, offering a wan smile. "Tough match, eh?"

The rest of the guys had suddenly found something much more interesting on the other side of the corridor. The already cleaned up side of the corridor. Cowards, yes, but John couldn't hold it against them.

Survival of the fittest was also survival of the smartest and right now John was not the guy to hang around unless you had a death wish.

He shrugged his shoulders, wincing a little. "The adrenaline's still pumping a bit, figure I'd better take some meds before the worst of the pain rears it's ugly head." He paused a beat. "How worried should I be about what transpired here?"

Better to prepare than to walk into McMahon's office blind.

"Well," Clive began, chocolate brown eyes glancing back over what was left to clean up. He blew out a breath, locking his gaze back on John's pain clouded baby blues then continued. "That depends on whether Sheamus turns out to be comatose or not..."

* * *

Two hours after the animal quit, John finally arrived back at the hotel.

He'd listened to Clive explain the insanity Randy unleashed on his fellow superstar. Attacking the man as soon as he returned back stage, risking further injury to himself. How it took Ted, R-truth and three others to pry him off the Irishmen. How it still required security building a wall around the unconscious man in order for Randy to leave him alone completely.

John could only hope and pray Sheamus wasn't hurt too terribly bad. Believe it or not, the viper still had to answer for his actions. Suspension sounded about right to John's ears, it was just the time limit that ate away at his mind.

After Clive had finished his story, he insisted the champ let him drive them back to the hotel. The adrenaline had worn off right around the part where Randy broke Sheamus' nose, the pain now clearly written in his features. In the way his entire left side held all of his weight.

John kind of felt like he'd been the one thrown through the floor. Batista was so going to kill him eventually.

While waiting for Clive to finish straightening up, John showered and popped a few Tylenol to take the edge off. They'd have to come back and get his car the next day, once both boys had gotten some rest and maybe a meeting with Vince.

John swiped his orange key card, pushing open the door once he got the green light. He'd expected Randy to be asleep or somewhat out of it since the younger man hadn't bothered to answer his cell. So to see him stretched out on the king sized bed watching t.v., deadliest catch to be exact, it kind of pissed him off.

"So we are ignoring calls, specifically my calls, because..." John trailed off closing the door behind him, stripping off his bag and tossing it in the corner next to Randy's.

"Out of my reach" Randy offered in a real causal tone, like John had just asked him about the weather. He sat leaning up against the headboard, shirt long since discarded, the button of his jeans undone and zipper pulled down. His right shoulder was wrapped, an ice pack resting on it, the heating pad warming the sheets next to him. His eyes were glued to the television but John could tell by the blank expression he wore that his emotions were currently waging a war within him.

"And if someone had of been calling to let you know that I was hurt or dead for that matter?" John questioned beginning to remove his shirt.

"I'd of heard it from Evan in the morning. Him and Cody are such gossip whores, ya know."

John paused for a split second, shirt halfway over his head. It wasn't so much the words as the tone that irked him. Smug bastard.

Vision corrected, he glared at his smirking lover. The small flicker of lust in the young man's eyes not going unnoticed.

John kicked off his shoes and socks, leaving him standing there in just his sweats. The cool air in the room caressed his skin, producing chill bumps. He had to lean on the dresser a second when he tried to turn around, his lower back knotting up on him.

"You okay, old man?" Randy joked, concerned eyes roaming over his lover's form.

"Peachy!" came the breathless reply. John took a few slow deep breaths, cursing the Tylenol for not kicking in completely just yet. "Just feeling a few those body slams, s'all, but I could ask you the same thing." John countered once the pain dissolved. "I asked you to 'play nice' and you go and traumatize the resident ghost."

Randy tried, he really did, but it was no use.

John's wisecracks on Sheamus' skin were stupid yeah, but after the night he'd had, they were just what he needed. He wiped a few stray tears, the laughter dying down as John flashed him the pearly whites, dimples included. He watched as John grabbed a toothbrush and paste from his bag and walked into the bathroom. Listened to the water run in the sink for a moment before turning up the volume on the t.v., drowning John out somewhat.

He felt and probably looked like death warmed over, twice. His shoulder was banged all to hell, probably side lining him for the next week or two.

He just couldn't win for losing it seemed lately. He was either injured, placed in useless matches, or his momentum was always being cut short.

At least his current dispute with Edge provided him a challenge. His old friend still knew him well enough from their Rated 'RKO' days, knew which buttons to punch to get a rise out of him, to keep them both giving their best performance.

His time would come, though. He would just have to sit and bide his time. Wait for a bigger fish to swim by. For a more formidable opponent to come around, brandishing a greater prize. Someone like...

John came back into the room to find Randy once again staring at the t.v. He turned out the lights, the glow coming from the screen enough for him to make it to the bed without killing himself.

The a/c kicked on as he climbed into bed. Pulling back his side of the sheets he stared at Randy's profile until the younger man got the message.

Growling, mostly for show, Randy stood so the John could ready the bed to his liking.

Carefully, Randy removed his jeans, not wanting aggravate his shoulder any further.

Once everything was to Sir John's taste, Randy climbed back in bed. He was propped up by a few pillows, his left arm behind his head, the heating pad now replacing the ice pack with John curled up on his left side. Neither man would admit it but they'd both gotten to the point where they needed each others comfort in order to sleep. That or all night phone calls when they were apart. True love'll do that to you, ya know.

A comfortable silence settled over them, something about loggers now playing across the screen.

Randy could feel his lids growing heavier by the second. He figured John was already asleep as slow even breaths grazed his bare chest. Just as he began to slip under, his own breathing evening out, John spoke.

"You never answered my question, ya know." Apparently John wasn't as tired as Randy. There were no traces of sleep in his voice at all.

"Hmm..."

"Sheamus, possible coma, your fault. Stop me when any of this sounds familiar" John said lifting his head to stare at his lover.

Randy took a moment to clear the cobwebs before he answered.

"Let just say I snapped." Randy began, clearing his throat. "He taunted and I struck-"

"You were supposed to be _relaxing_ in our locker room. You'd already cussed out one of the trainers, two refs and anyone else dumb enough to get in your face."

For the record, yes that included John too, but he was used to it.

Propping himself up on one elbow, John almost smiled. The wheels of his mind already turning. Putting the pieces together.

"How was he taunting _you_? Even so, why didn't you ignore him cause you do realize you could have fucked your shoulder up further?"

Randy could hear the hints of that smile, but he still didn't open his eyes. His voice did however drop dangerously low.

"His feet belong on the floor. He's got one more time to kick you and he'll wish he really was comatose."

Now John was smart. He knew when his card had been played, knew when to drop a conversation. Randy only felt the need to stake his claim when he felt he was threatened or felt John was being roughed up a bit too much. If tonight hadn't gone in John's favor, Batista would have been paid a little visit also.

But please don't get it twisted. John was no weakling by any means, ask the animal. It's just...when you have a deadly secret weapon, whose not going to use it to their advantage.

A small smirk crossed his lips as he settled back down next to Randy. Now if only they could get Vince to see it their way.

* * *

"So...you tried to buy the guys eye, why exactly?" Randy asked, completely puzzled and beyond disgusted.

He, Ted, Evan, R-Truth, Primo and The Miz were all sitting around the main locker room. Mostly discussing plans for later on that night when RAW end, the triple threat match playing out on the t.v.

Ted shrugged his shoulders, checking on Virgil before he answered. "Seemed cool to me."

"Yeah, but from a distance, man." Randy growled with no real heat. "Not preserved in a jar on one of your shelves."

Ted laughed, getting up to go use the restroom."To each his own."

Since Randy already knew the outcome of John's match he only half paid attention. He absently wondered how hard he'd have to try to talk John into going out tonight since the older man would probably be tired. Back to back nights with two hard fought matches could dampen even the best of their spirits. Add to that the news that the man would have to defend his championship against four people and well, Randy was just glad he wasn't in his lover's shoes...not yet at least.

He picked up on 'Metalingus' roaring through the speakers but made no move to get up. It wasn't until Edge's theme music was cut short that he even looked up at the screen, grey eyes darkening a shade, cold demeanor sliding into place at the sight that greeted him.

"Celtic bitch"

Randy was off the bench and gone before any of the others really registered what changed.

"Should we go after him" Mike asked. No one wanted a repeat of last night.

"Naw," R-Truth answered. "He won't break kayfabe, he'll be suspended. I doubt he'd want to risk a shot at the title over the Celtic warrior."

That was only half the truth. No, Randy wouldn't break kayfabe but he would still make good on his promise if Sheamus so much as touched John. _Innocent until proven guilty_ was one of his favorite phrases.

It only took him about ten seconds to reach his destination. He signaled the sound guy, glaring when the man started to protest, then worked on calming himself as he waited for his cue.

John could only think _oh shit _when he heard Sheamus' music. He knew Randy would be right behind him.

And sure enough, he watched as Sheamus backed the fuck up when 'Voices' began to play.

The music hit and Randy stalked out, steely gaze boring holes right through the beaten and bruised Irishmen. The fans went absolutely wild, majority of them able to answer the question as to who got a hold of Sheamus as Randy continued to glare. No coma obviously, just a concussion, broken nose and marred milky skin. Randy hadn't planned on killing the man, he just wanted to make a statement.

Keep you damn feet on the floor!

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _was set on repeat in John's head. Vince had let Randy off easy last night, chalking it up to pent up anger and the pain from his jacked shoulder. The warning was given though. Another blow up like that and Randy would sit at the house, three months minimum.

The viper played nice this time, however. Only glaring from Sheamus, to Edge, and last but not least, at John.

Hopefully these same four would meet again in the fatal-4-way. The champ, the opportunist, the warrior, and the viper. One fucked up deadly cocktail.

Any takers?

* * *

**A/N2: **


End file.
